On Writing And Words Sonnet Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Sonnet

These On Writing And Words Sonnet poems are examples of On Writing And Words poems about Sonnet. These are the best examples of On Writing And Words Sonnet poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

Up every day at three, fighting for life.
As support for so many, I don't know
how much longer I can maintain this strife.
A few minutes there, a few minutes now,
I scribble a few lines at a stop light,
back to the daily grind, and edit here
on the fly. Don't give up without a fight
the dream that words can make the world as clear
and as coherent as it needs to be.
Find the rhyme and nudge out a true meaning.
Pull it together and hope for a key
phrase. Send out for comment, not expecting
too much. So, a bad day was made perfect,
a sad week made great by Bella's critique

You sink into the bosom of the chair
And wonder if I too once sat amidst
The chattering, white coffee sipping fare—
The lonely writers ‘pining for a kiss.
Did I peer out over the porce’lain mug
And purse my vulgar mouth over the lip
My eyes a’roll behind my glasses’ fog
My writer turning phrase and spinning quips?
Did I curl my toes under my feet
Threading my fingers ‘round the scolding cup
My yellow molars grinding to the beat
Of meds-a-glee and glutt’nous caffeine ups?
No—
I didn't’t sit cross-legged and introverted—
I flipped through glossy pages and consorted.

So sorry no rsvp you see
to welcome comments given me
no laptop now,just an iphone cell
to you dear friends,my verse to tell;
Poems I can paste and post
sadly contests here I cannot host
PS remains poetry's number one
to it each day I still will come;
An iphone friendly site would be a boon
perhaps it will come soon?
Meanwhile enter your image verse
in my contest for poems terse;
See my link here below,
take a pen and have a go
http://imageverse.blogspot.com

I spit the words you made me eat, and then
they land on you as there you stand aghast –
You cringe and stare at what you said; thick phlegm
bedecks your face, a white-hot, slimy blast.
They left a taste, a bitter paste of hate
and painful anger. Tongue to teeth, I fled
the room and slapped the twisted hands of fate
from off my neck as choking life-breath bled.
I tripped, you screamed and tried to grab me back –
Too late for that, and now we fall apart.
The precipice is yawning, grim, deep black
and down I plunge, my ending and my start.
The forge of stellar flame blows hot, then cold
as melting, sculpted frozen wings unfold

I am writing this poem as a sonnet.
Yes, a sonnet but more modern and quiet,
in a style that you may or may not like.
I’m writing it my way, you may find it
difficult to call it a sonnet.
With a broken meter and forceful rhyme
but like all sonnets it has nothing to bind
you to it but the thought that you give it.
I still need this sonnet to say a word
about the way all sonnets are written.
From old masters this form we were given
and remains with rhyme the form most preferred.
It is poetry that comes from our soul.
It is poetry that makes poets whole.

OF COURSE A SONNET is just a word
No its not it’s something I’ve never heard
But what does it mean, I didn’t know
To the dictionary I did go
OF COURSE A SONNET should not confuse
With lyrics that are fourteen lines long
Convectional rhyming schemes are used
When it’s read it can sing like a song
OF COURSE A SONNET goes back in time
Back when Shakespeare was making a rhyme
I read a few and thought they were fine
But it’s not the form, for poems like mine
OF COURSE A SONNET, just isn’t me
My poems are simple as they can be

SONNET BY SYD SHAKESPEARE
Shall I compare a tragedy to a comedy?
Tragic art’s more lovely and more temperate:
Rough minds do shake with laughing at Nuts in May,
And some comedies have all too short a sell-by date:
Sometime the plot is shy of meaning lines,
And oft is the old rich-haircut-joke dimm'd;
And every heir with hair sometime declines,
A fresh cut, keeping nature's changing hair untrimm'd:
But tragedy’s eternal superiority shall not fade
Nor lose possession of its humour edge, the lowest;
Nor shall failure brag thou wast by comedy in the shade,
When with eternal lines of fans, thou growest:
Whenever men can’t breathe, and eyes can’t see,
Then long lives this, and this gives life to tragedy.

A wooden road of thought so deeply grained
with ruts beneath the shudder of my pen
it's inkless falterings my hand stills pained
in search for words that may not come again.
These random slivers of such dense suspense
have sewn my hand unto my sagging shoulder
the wretched shivers quiver so intense
it melts my fragile muse in dipping solder.
Distracted by this torture's ruthless pause
with eyes I skip the silver disc of night
and listen for the ripples of applause
while darkness falters with the dawning light.
Another wordless day has idled on,
again I find the midnight gone with dawn.